Джек Макдевитт - Cryptic - The Best Short Fiction of Jack McDevitt

Noted. A world of meaning in that.

Bronze statues of generals were everywhere. They assumed heroic postures, gazing out at some far horizon, their uniforms crisp and neat, guns hanging on their belts. Directly across from the main entrance to Sunset House was a heroic rendering of the dictator himself.

Pierik Akatimi .

Beloved.

Sunset House was said to have been designed by him. Uniformed guards stood outside the front entrance.

I crossed the street from the park, climbed a set of marble steps, and waited beside the guards. I was there less than a minute when the door opened and several Noks filed out.

I had to push a bit, but I got inside without being seen.

The center of the building was open to the roof and lined with galleries. Six levels of offices circled the main lobby and receiving area. There was more statuary, this time of Noks with wings and lightning bolts. And there were paintings. I remembered having read that the dictator was a collector. Or a looter, depending on your point of view.

Also prominent were flags carrying his personal symbol, a tree. It more or less resembled a spruce and was supposed to mark his dedication to life.

His office was on the top level. There were carpeted stairways and elevators on both sides of the building. And a lot of traffic. I had to keep moving to stay out of everyone’s way. Noks in and out of uniform passed, talking about how happy everyone was when Pierik made his appearances, and how much charisma he had, and whether it was going to rain later. I decided to pass on the elevator and use a stairway.

It was crowded. I had to get off the stairs a couple of times to make room. But I got to the sixth level without incident.

It was easy enough to pick out the dictator’s office. Bigger, heavier doors than anyone else. Exquisitely carved with leaves and branches. And two guards.

The doors were closed. I could hear voices inside.

I settled down to wait.

Four females were approaching around the curve of the gallery. They were side by side, the outermost tapping the guard rail as she walked, the innermost trailing a hand along the wall. They stopped at the elevator, and I hoped they’d go down, but they spoke briefly to someone who was getting off, and then they were coming again.

On the other side, about eight meters away, several military types were clustered, arguing about something. I moved toward them. “…Better simply to remove them from active consideration,” one was saying. There was no room to squeeze past.

“They’re all turaka ,” said another. He looked like the senior guy, judging by the insignia that glittered on his shoulders. I hadn’t heard the term turaka before, but its structure betrayed the meaning. Sub-human . Or, more correctly, sub-Nok .

The females were coming. They were past the guards outside the imperial office, and were now separating to get by the military. Caught between fires, I had to push past the senior Nok. When he jerked suddenly aside, from no apparent cause, there were grunts and startled looks and at least one angry frown. Nobody quite knew what had happened. One of the staff officers was left explaining himself as best he could.

I circled the gallery. The females disappeared through doorways, and the military group were still talking when I approached the Beloved Leader’s office again.

The conversation inside was going strong. It was animated, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Eventually the door opened and two uniforms made their exit. Someone remained inside, seated in an armchair.

The head guy.

I slipped inside.

Pierik was in a military uniform, his collar loosened. Unlike his statue, he wore no decorations. No insignia of rank. He was paging through a folder, occasionally making notations.

The room was more apartment than office. It had no desk, no filing cabinet, no storage space. It did have a closet, thick carpets, and several arm chairs, arranged around a long table. Rich satiny curtains covered the windows. Flames crackled cheerfully in a fireplace. Two doors opened onto a balcony, and two more, in back, into what appeared to be a set of living quarters. A large portrait of the dictator himself, standing with two Nok kids, dominated the wall. He had an arm around each, and it remains to this day the most chilling thing I saw on that unhappy world.

There were other paintings. Pierik apparently liked landscapes.

He was smaller than I’d expected. The Beloved Leader was only slightly taller than I was, which was almost diminutive for a Nok male. He was thin. His neck was scarred, and one hand looked withered. From disease rather than injury, I suspected.

A buzzer sounded. Pierik flipped a switch.

“ Korbi is here with the reports, sir. ”

He extracted a piece of paper from the folder, stared at it, crumpled it, and dropped it into a waste basket. “Send him in, Tira.”

The door opened, and a heavyset male entered and bowed.

“Korbi,” said the dictator, “how are you? Good to see you. How’s it going?”

“Good, Kabah ,” he said. The term translated more or less to Excellency , Blessed Son , and Person of Undoubted Ability . “And yourself?”

“It’s been a long morning.”

It was not the way I expected a dictator to behave. He seemed far too casual. Too friendly.

Korbi carried several documents. He handed them over. “These require your signature, sir.”

“Very good,” said Pierik. “How’s the family?”

“We’re doing well, thank you, Kabah. Graasala would want me to convey her best wishes.”

“And mine to her, Korbi. Is there anything else?”

A moment later, he was gone. Pierik dropped the documents on the table, and returned his attention to the folder.

I had not forgotten that my eyes were visible. I could cover them with my arm. But I saw a better possibility. A bookcase stood against one wall, near the doors to the balcony. The books were, for the most part, exquisitely bound. The bindings of the books on the top shelf were primarily dark brown. The color of my eyes. I got in front of the bookcase, and stooped a little so I got the background I wanted.

Pierik put down the folder, picked up the new documents, and thumbed through them.

The Shadow’s moment had arrived.

“Pierik Akatimi.”

He almost fell out of his chair. That was a satisfying moment, and it made me realize that he lived in constant fear of assassination. He looked around the room. Pressed a button. And the guards charged in.

“Someone is here,” he said. “Search the place.” He opened a drawer in the table and pulled out a gun. He checked to see that it was loaded. One guard cautiously opened a closet door, while the other inspected the curtains. Checked behind the furniture. They made sure no one was out on the balcony, and then they disappeared in back.

An officer and two more came in. The officer drew a pistol and took station beside his master, who remained calmly seated. The others joined the search. In the living quarters, doors opened and closed. Furniture got moved. Finally the guards reported to the officer. “There is no one, Bakal .”

“You’re sure?”

They were. Pierik got up, walked to the drawing room, and looked in. He shrugged, a remarkably human gesture, and dismissed the guards. He made one more sweep around, then went back to his chair and laid the weapon close to hand on the table.

How to handle this? If Pierik was going to call in the troops every time he heard a voice, I was in for a difficult time. I thought about snatching the gun, pointing it at him, and warning him to be quiet. But a weapon floating in midair, aimed directly at him, was likely to produce screams.